Intimate Act Quotes

“But music-good music-was by nature an intimate act.”
― Cinda Williams Chima

“Then he strode forward; as I flinched back, he dropped to his knees before me in a deep obeisance. He kissed my foot and laid his hands against my knees: the ancient posture of supplication.
Then he looked up at me, his blue eyes wide and desperate.
Once, as a child, I had sat with my ear pressed against the grandfather clock in the sitting room as it tolled noon. The peals didn't ring through my head; they rang through my entire body, from the bones in my arms to the air in my lungs, until I was nothing but a helpless vibration alongside them.
It felt the same way now. For a short, trackless time I couldn't move or breathe; I could only stare down at his pale face, his half-parted lips, and echo the thought over and over. He is begging me.”
― Rosamund Hodge, Cruel Beauty

“Bennett reached for the fork first and scooped up a perfect bite of everything, which was a relief. A relief that turned into panic when he held the fork out toward me. Not for me to take---for me to take a bite. "For you, sweetheart." His eyes sparkled behind his glasses.
I squared my shoulders. I could not believe this was happening. "Thank you, darling," I forced out, and let him feed me.
My lips closed over the fork, Bennett watching the entire time. My face warmed again at the intentness of his stare on my mouth, but surely he was just watching to see when he could remove the utensil.
The babka beignet was spectacular, light and fluffy and buttery, the chocolate filling dark and sweet against the tart brightness of the cherry. I parted my lips so that he could pull the fork back. His face was red again.
Fortunately, he didn't make me feed him, just took a bite himself.
Sadie asked, "So? What do you think?"
"Delicious," he said, but he wasn't even looking at the dessert. He was looking at me.
I couldn't even bring myself to answer. I could still feel the insistent push of his fork against my lips.”
― Amanda Elliot, Best Served Hot

“It was a brave thing you did, Susannah."
Something unfamiliar in his eyes warmed Susannah clear through, and at the same time made her feel strangely bare. "I wasn't trying to be brave."
Kit's lovely mouth lifted at the corner. "Which is what makes it brave." His expression was still difficult to read. He seemed so somber, almost shy, if she didn't know better. Humble? No, that couldn't be. But the warmth in it was unmistakable. "You'll be a little sore tomorrow." He absently reached out and kneaded her upper arm.
Susannah closed her eyes to slits; the kneading felt wonderful. It was almost more intimate than a kiss, but then again, almost nothing seemed intimate in comparison to having one's hand thrust up a horse, and Susannah, at the moment, didn't care.
Kit abruptly dropped her hand. She opened her eyes fully again.
And they stood again quietly together for a moment, simply looking at each other. A peculiar peace stole over Susannah, a lovely, dreamy sort of fullness.”
― Julie Anne Long, Beauty and the Spy

“Your armpit is very handsome."
This made him laugh. "Only an artist would think an armpit is handsome."
"But it is... the line of it is, anyhow. The muscles and shadows and hair..." She traced the muscles and shadows and hair with her finger as she said the words, and her voice drifted.
She sat up suddenly and reached for her sketchbook and quickly rendered him, that arm stretched over his head, his bare chest, and long legs, his lolling, spent manhood resting in curling hair, his wonderful face reflecting smug satisfaction, easy intimacy.
"You're a very good model," she told him approvingly. "You hold cooperatively still."
"I don't think I could move if you pointed a gun at me," he murmured.
She kissed the birthmark in the shape of a gull on his outstretched wrist, then leaned down and kissed his nipple, tracing it with her tongue, tasting it the way he'd tasted hers. His hand trailed down her back, she saw unmistakable signs of stirring below.
"You're moving now," she teased.
He gave a short, very distracted laugh. "Siren," he said absently. Clearly enjoying the run of her tongue over his chest.”
― Julie Anne Long, Beauty and the Spy

“He dug his thumbnail into the blushing peel and pulled until the dark red fruit appeared, spraying citrus oil everywhere. As he pulled the fruit into its sections, it glowed like rubies. It made the fruit I'd bought at the supermarket for our ill-fated experiment look dry and stale in comparison.
"Why do you have to show me now?"
I stopped cold, because he'd grabbed my chin. His fingers were soft, insistent.
"Because I want to. Open," he said. He was smiling, but there was something in his eyes I hadn't seen before. Determination?
When I gaped at him, he popped the orange segment in my mouth.
I bit down, and my eyes fluttered shut. Sweet-sour fireworks exploded across my tongue, and I couldn't help but moan a little bit. I tasted orange, of course, but there were raspberries and a little bit of rose petal, too.
"That's incredible," I said once I'd swallowed. "Like eating a sunset."
When I opened my eyes, he was staring at my mouth. I felt fireworks again, this time in my stomach. But a second later, he smiled big and said, "I was going to say a party in my mouth, but I guess that's why you're the writer.”
― Sarah Chamberlain, The Slowest Burn

“But Ellie's fingertips brushed over my cheekbone, soft as rose petals. Traced my temple, my jawline.
She touched me like I was precious.
No one in my entire life had been gentle with me.
And her lips said, "I'm here" and "Be mine." But wait. She was faking it. We both were. A fake kiss could taste like vanilla milkshakes and prosecco and feel like floating on a cloud.”
― Sarah Chamberlain, The Slowest Burn

“It felt like chicken soup when I had a snotty mess of a cold, like a glass of icy apple juice when my body was on fire with fever. I didn't disappear into his embrace like I had in Max's, but he was still strong and comforting and almost like relief. I buried my face in his shoulder, and he found the sweet spot on my back again, rubbing it until I wanted to purr.
But then my skin prickled, and suddenly I genuinely felt feverish. It was only supposed to be a hug with a friend, not me climbing him like a tree.”
― Sarah Chamberlain, The Slowest Burn

“They squeezed together, the gentleman with his back against the window and Elspeth between his legs.
The door opened.
Candlelight suddenly brightened the room below as someone--- two someones--- walked into the library.
The gentleman tightened his hold about her middle. Her bottom was firmly wedged against the V of his thighs, his heat enfolding her. Elspeth had to pull her mind away from the sensation of his breath against the nape of her neck to listen to the men below.”
― Elizabeth Hoyt, No Ordinary Duchess

“Rest back again."
He does and then groans when I start massaging the shampoo into his hair. The sound goes straight to my core. I work slowly. Slower than I should, but it feels good to have my hands on him. My fingers glide over the hard curve of his skull, down to the thick cords of his neck.
"God," he whispers. "Please don't stop."
His muscles are so strong here that it hurts my fingers to dig in, but his noises of pleasure and the way he leans into my touch keep me going.
Foam rinses around my hands; water trickles down the tan column of his neck to wander over the hills and valleys of his wide-set shoulders. My lips swell with the need to follow those waterdrops, press against his wet skin. I bite the inside of my cheek.
Macon sighs, his lids lowering, and I move closer, my breasts hitting the back of the tub. I push along the rise of his shoulders. They're like silk over granite, slippery wet and warm. He grunts, and I do it again. He leans into my hands, whimpering softly. I take the moment to rise and turn on the taps again. We don't speak as I rinse the shampoo from his hair.
It's a strange thing, taking care of him this way. I'm turned on--- more than I thought I could be. It's a low hum in my body, the lush swelling of my breasts, of my sex. It's in the painful tenderness in my nipples and the sensitive edges of my lips. I want to savor him like I do fine dark chocolate, letting each bite melt on my tongue, lingering over the delicious taste of it.”
― Kristen Callihan, Dear Enemy